


Grasshopper

by demonfox38



Series: DLC from DF38 [6]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Baseball, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, Robotics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: The Engineer tries to depart his wisdom on the Scout. Unfortunately, there's only so much room in the kid's head for information outside of sports.
Series: DLC from DF38 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677937
Kudos: 12





	Grasshopper

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to TF2Chan on December 26th, 2012.

The round had begun nearly an hour ago. Not to say that it had been an hour since they had started fighting. No, the match was past sixty minutes in length, and neither team had been able to breach the other's base. It was hard to say who was being the most successful. Their Engineer had the intelligence room locked down like Fort Knox, but the enemy tinkerer had stood like a wall of steel as well. Both Heavies had ripped apart the front lines before being lanced in the head by opposing Snipers. Their Demoman was beyond his normal drunkenness today, continually falling off the bridges that spanned across the Double Cross battlefield. However, the enemy Soldier was sloppy and irritable, his rockets splattering all over the place. That was, of course, when he didn't decide just to go shovel-a-mano. It was a hot, uncoordinated mess.

That was when their Soldier made an impromptu meeting in the intelligence room. "Alright, princesses. Get your tiaras on straight and listen up! We've got to come up with a new strategy. State your ideas, and I will tell you why you are wrong."

"I cannot slip past zhe front lines." The Spy was quick to point out his troubles. "It would be better if some swine could manage to keep his head down while he is clearing zhe front lines. Perhaps pay attention to zhe little dots dancing around his head."

The Heavy narrowed his eyes. "If little man would use his tools and not blame others, he would not have troubles, I think."

The Sniper wiped his forehead, trying to cool himself off with his hat. "Not to knock your meeting, Sarge, but that team's got me runnin' hot. Between them and that damned Spy, I can't keep the front door clear. Shouldn't be yammerin' with you all right now."

"Mmm hmph. Mrrn't drr mrnrrhrrn," the Pyro agreed.

The Engineer gave an exasperated sigh, equally fatigued. "I don't know what y'all want me to do. I'm doin' my job here."

"And we're not?" The Demoman pointed a wobbly finger at the Engineer's shirt. "I'll have ya know, I'm doin' all that I can to get to that point, but it's not turnin' colors!"

The Medic placed his face in his palm. "Dummkopf. Vhere do you zhink we are? Ve're securing intel, not locations!"

Now the Demoman was red-faced, although it was hard to tell if it was from rage or embarrassment. "Why did none 'a ya tell me that?"

"This is not coming up with a plan! This is girlish bitching!" The Soldier cracked his new toy in his hand. It was hard to tell where he'd found a riding crop, but he was relishing every opportunity he got to use it. "One of you had better start talking tactics, or I will personally shove you all into that base!"

"You knuckleheads know dhere's a second entry into dheir base, right?"

Everybody turned to the Scout. He was cracking open another energy drink with his bucked teeth. He took a drink, raising an eyebrow as everybody stared at him. "Oh, come on. Dhere's a little shaft at dhe bottom. Dhat old railway? Runs between it? Ya haven't seen it?"

The Heavy scratched his chin. "Looks weak. Might break."

"Maybe if you got on it. I think I can handle it." The Scout tipped his can at the team. "I ran it a couple of times. Coulda gotten the intel too, if it weren't for that stinkin' gun-twirlin' redneck. No offense, Overalls."

"Alright. It's worth a shot." The Soldier pointed at the Spy. "Frenchie! Escort my fellow American into the base using his new route. In the meantime, we'll keep the enemy distracted with our meaty, burning patriotism! And whatever you two bootlickers have." The Medic and the Heavy pulled a face, but neither took the time to argue with the Soldier. Fighting his nationalism was taxing and fruitless.

The Sniper hefted his rifle over his shoulder, bolting for the left door. "Right then. Back at it, before they catch—"

The rest of his sentence disappeared as a leather glove snaked around the door and yanked the Sniper outside. A muffled howl was lost to a myriad of other noises. Boots tromping down the stairwell. Gunfire. Exploding electronics. The intel room flooded with bullets and smoke as the other team put their plan into action. Those that hadn't been struck down instantly by the barrage were quick to draw their arms, blasting the weaker of the attackers clear out of the room. Shrieks and screams rang in the tiny room, their owners lost in the melee.

Normally, the Scout would have stayed put and fought it out with the others. He wasn't a chicken, and he wasn't about to let their intelligence slip from his fingers. A strange feeling overcame him, fueled by adrenaline, caffeine, sugar, and whatever the hell else was in that Atomic Punch. He dashed out of the intelligence room, ducking beneath a wayward shot. With what seemed like most of the enemy team duking it out in the intelligence room, that left very few to no people guarding their intelligence. He could get in and disappear with their intel before they could come back. Heck, maybe even pick off a few stragglers.

Despite the unlikeliness that his gamble would pay off, the Scout felt an eerie air of confidence. There was a time to run, and there was a time to fight. It was like that smart old coot had said. He smiled, thinking of the smells of a warm field baked by a hot summer sun. He wanted to get back to that as soon as possible. No bullet or knife was going to take that away from him.

There was no time to second-guess. It was time for the Grasshopper to get out there and do it.

* * *

It sat on the ground, chirping merrily away as it scanned the terrain. The Scout was familiar with these little robots. Sentries. This one was a baby, just a couple of feet off the ground. The sentry gave him a beep, then continued idling away. He cocked his head, trying to figure out what was different about it. It had a larger muzzle than most. Probably bigger ammunition. He didn't know why it was painted orange and white, like the Demoman's Sticky Jumper. Was it supposed to be a practice sentry? Why the heck would the Engineer build something like this? Furthermore, why would he leave it in the middle of the base's courtyard? That was just begging for the enemy Spy to come along and sap it.

"Whaddya think of him?"

The Scout turned his head. The Engineer crouched down to his level, giving the robot a loving pat. "I call him Umbrie. Well, Urmbricht is its full name, but—"

"Umbricht? Like, Jim Umbricht?" The Scout raised an eyebrow. "You're into baseball?"

The Engineer gave him a big grin. "I was a Forty-Fives fan, son. Then an Astros fan."

That earned the Texan a scoff. The Scout scratched at his nose. "Not a bad choice, I guess. Dhey're better as dhe Astros, though."

"Experience usually helps." Giving Umbrie one last pat, the Engineer stood up. "Wanna try it?"

The Scout leapt to his feet. Try it? "Oh, hell no!"

"It's not loaded with—aw, hell. Give me a second." The Engineer scooped the new sentry into his arms. Carrying it around like a proud father, he walked it further away from their home base. He turned the robot to face away from the barracks. With a soft stirring of dust, he placed Umbrie back on the ground. He gave it a few swipes to get rid of debris, then flicked a switch on its back. A light next to the sentry's muzzle turned from green to red.

The Engineer leaned against his baby. "Got a bat?"

A toothy smile escaped the Scout's face. "No way! You didn't—"

Now he knew why the Engineer named this new robot Umbrie. He ran in front of the machine. The little robot beeped at him, then a small laser light flashed from the right side of the machine. It measured a distance a little further back, waiting for the Scout to get on the mark. That Texan really did think of everything. The Scout jogged backwards, standing on the machine's light. There were three soft beeps from the robot.

Then the muzzle exploded.

A baseball erupted from the mouth of the robot. It hurdled towards the Scout, going straight for his gut. He gave a sharp swing. His bat cracked as the ball flew into the sky, splinters erupting from the impact. It was like batting a grenade away. As soon as that ball had disappeared as nothing more than a twinkle in the horizon, another ball erupted from the machine. Then another. Then another. It was all he could do to keep up with Umbrie. Each hit earned him another clap like thunder. Crack! Crack! Crack! Good God, his arms were going to fall off and—

The Scout made an undignified groan as the next ball caught him in the solar plexus. He crumpled to the ground. Umbrie went silent, knowing that its target had gone down. The Engineer flipped the safety onto the machine, then jogged to the prone Scout. He rolled the boy over, taking a quick look where the ball had struck him. It just knocked the wind out of him. Considering the other injuries the Scout had experienced, a good knock to the stomach wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"You okay, son?" The Engineer asked.

A weak thumb's up came from the Scout. "Give me a sec." He brought his knees up, wobbling upright like a drowsy fawn. "Man, that stung."

The Engineer sighed. "Probably need to slow it down a bit."

"Hell, no! Dhat was awesome! Dhat was—ouch!" The Scout gave his stomach a quick poke. It was going to be a nasty shade of purple tomorrow. "Maybe just a little."

Giving the young man a polite nod, the Engineer set to work. With a few gentle taps, he removed the orange casing around Umbrie. He prodded his mechanical hand through wires and gears, softly pressing them aside. It was endearing and a little disgusting at the same time. The Scout could imagine the Medic doing the same thing, digging around people's intestines and removing bullets, the same grin shared between the two. Within a few moments, the Engineer finished his repairs, then redressed the pitching machine. "Okay. Let's try again."

The next few minutes went by without too much incident. Umbrie's pitches had slowed somewhat, but they were still decent enough to practice against. The Scout continued his batting practice, almost every toss met with a solid hit. The Engineer sat back and watched him. A strange thought crossed the Scout's mind. With his dad being AWOL and his mom's suitors almost always ignoring him, this was probably the closest experience he'd had to playing catch with any kind of father figure in his life. Even then, it was really with a robot. Still, the activity had its Rockwellian qualities.

"Say, Engie?" the Scout asked. "Why d'ya build dhis thing, anyway?"

The Engineer scratched his chin. "Well, Grasshopper, I can't rightly say. Just seemed like ya've been mighty troubled, lately."

The Scout lowered his bat. "Grasshopper?" 

Umbrie hadn't caught that the Scout was ignoring it, so it beaned the Scout in the stomach again. He stumbled away, giving the machine a couple special curses as he passed by.

"Well, ya know. Ya jump around a lot. Ya make a lotta noise." The Engineer shrugged. "Ya just remind me of a grasshopper."

The Scout rubbed his face, muttering. "Whatever. Not the worst thing I've been called."

The Engineer patted the ground next to him. "How have ya been doin', lately?"

Usually, the Scout was too busy running around to think about how he was feeling. His emotions came mostly from whether or not his standard needs were met. Food, sleep, hygiene, sports games. It helped him to ignore other problems around him, like his mother's promiscuity and whatever the hell was going on in the Medic's room at three in the morning. The little things. Now that he had slowed down, he started going through how he was doing. 

He sat down next to the Engineer, taking a moment to reflect. "Ya know—I think I might kinda be down, a little bit."

"Oh, yeah? What about?" the Engineer asked.

"Well, I can tell ya what's pissin' me off right now." The Scout's mouth went off at the speed of light, his entire energy coming straight out of the top of his body. "So, today we're out cappin' points, right? And along my path comes another bastard little Scout. So, I get my shotgun out and try to give him dhe ol' knock-out. You know what he does? Jumps on my damn head and beats my ass like a rented mule."

The Engineer nodded. "That would be embarrassing."

The Scout pointed at the Texan. "Ya know what happens next match? I'm out, cappin' again, and what should happen to catch dhe corner of my eye but dhe two-ton menace. So, fatty's got lard goin' through his guts, right? As long as his precious princess ain't dhere with him, I got him dealt with. No problem. So, while I'm playing break the piñata with fatso, guess what happens?" He made a whistling noise, then pointed at his skull. "Damn Sniper catches me in dhe noodle. Don't know how he did it, man. I never stood still. Not once."

"Uh huh." The Engineer continued encouraging the young man to spill his guts.

"And dhen, dhen! Oh, ho ho!" The Scout jumped to his feet, then sashayed and faked smoking a cigarette. He lowered his voice, trying to imitate the enemy Spy's lilt. "How nice zhat we meet again, little rabbit man! Pardon me while I stick zhis carrot zhrough your spine! Off to see your mozher! Hon hon hon!" He broke from his act, pounding one of his fists into the other open hand. "Man, I'd like to play baseball with dheir damn heads. Maybe I can get dhe Soldier to get me a set."

The Engineer winced. There was no need to encourage that behavior. "So, what ye're sayin' is that ye've gotten yer hat handed to ya repeatedly, and ya wanna pay them back in kind."

The Scout stopped his tirade. "Ya know what? Yeah. I'd like to do dhat. Get some revenge. Give dhem dhe ol' one-two. Spill a little jarate. Shank a bitch."

The Engineer shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh. He scratched his chin. "Would revenge do ya any good?"

That made no sense to the Scout. He put his hands on his hips. "What, ya want me to just turn the odher cheek?"

"Now, now. Hear me out." The Engineer placed a hand on the Scout's shoulders. "Now, let's suppose ya wanted to go pants these fellers next round. Is that gonna get ya the point, or capture the intel?"

The Scout cocked his head to the side. "Might work, if we were in an arena match."

"What's yer job, Scout?" the Engineer asked. "Is it to kill people, or is it to steal their stuff?"

That was a strange question. The Scout thought he had an immediate answer. Both were important aspects of his job. Now, when he stopped to think about it, that wasn't quite right. When his team needed him the most, it wasn't for killing anybody. It was to go secure a location or spirit information away from the enemy base. He just happened to enjoy the gunplay as well.

The Scout huffed. "Suppose it's more about stealin'. Still like the killin', though."

"There ya go." The Engineer gave the Scout the same kind of pat he gave Umbrie. "Just do yer job first. There's a time for runnin', and there's a time for fightin'. Just focus more on winnin' than killin'. Then ya can rub it in their noses."

That was probably the weirdest advice he'd heard for fighting others. Was the Engineer suggesting pacifism? That was incredibly dumb. Sure, the Texan didn't have to lift a finger to kill others. His sentries did that for him. Still, he had to wonder. He certainly didn't have to fight the Heavy that time. The Scout had to go, yeah. He couldn't have done anything about the Sniper, but he could have been paying more attention to what was going on around him and focused less on batting skulls in. And the Spy—well, he should have beaned him a few times. It was hard to say when killing or not killing would be more beneficial in any situation.

Still, it gave him a new tactic to try. Maybe a dumb one, but it would be interesting to attempt once. "I'll think about it."

The Engineer gave him a warm smile. "Git out there 'n do it, young Grasshopper."

* * *

He was halfway through the sewer system leading out to the abandoned rail line before anyone caught up with him. Damn bases were so winding and twisted that he'd lost a little time looking for the drainage pipes. The man tailing the Scout was quiet, save for soft splashes where tailored shoes sloshed into the water. The Scout spared only one glance over his shoulder. At first, it looked like only his shadow was following him. Peering into the water, he saw a flicker of colored light as liquid shimmered against an invisible cloak. He smiled, panting while he bolted. It was his Spy.

"Thought ya bit it back dhere, Spy." The Scout peeked around the corner of the drainage exit.

The Spy gave his left arm a little shake, the silver band around his arm shining. "I was a phantom, but only for a moment."

The Scout smirked. He waved for the Spy to follow him. Neither man made a peep as they slipped below the reinforcements of the bridge. It was awkwardly quiet, the sounds of the night making no greater noise than a small bell's jingle. The fighting still rang out in their base, but it was little more than bass rumblings. They splashed into the enemy's sewers, the Bostonian easily outgunning the Frenchman. They wove through the drains, stopping only for a moment next to a winding stairwell. As the Spy caught his breath in tobacco-filled lungs, the Scout poked his nose upstairs. Shoot. Some of the other team had already revived. Lucky for him, they were all moving towards his team's base again. They hadn't noticed his snooping.

Then he showed up. 

The Scout's Engineer had the graces of Southern Hospitality. He was kind, gentle, careful with his words. This guy? Oh, man. All he gave a damn about was the Second Amendment. This Engineer was going to build a gun, and it was going to be one hell of a gun. When he didn't instantly blow an opponent away, he would rub their noses in it, often finishing the job with horrific spike-covered wrenches. There were rumors that he would even use his electrical cord, string up really unlucky bastards and use them as calibration tests for his machines. Dirty, mean-spirited, spiteful. He was everything a Yankee could hate about a man from Dixie.

An enemy Demoman crept behind his back. Well, not actually him. Just the Spy. He saw the hungry, frustrated glance in the Scout's eyes. Where the Scout saw him as a caustic hick, the Spy saw the enemy Engineer as plump poultry ready for carving. He leaned over, whispering in a forced Scottish imitation. "Ya go to the left. Jump the railing. I'll take the right and get the egghead."

They broke rank, the Scout zipping just below where heavy enemy boots tromped. He hauled himself over a nearby railing, landing with a soft grunt at the base of a staircase. He waited for a few moments, keeping his eye on his back. Nobody was following them so far. There was the familiar sound of dead weight hitting the floor. The Scout jumped up the stairwell, already congratulating the Spy for his work, "Good goin', Fancy. Didn't think ya—"

"Didn't think what, String Bean?"

Chills shot through the Scout's bones. That was not the Spy. A dark grin crept across the victor's face, flicking some kind of fleshy matter off of his wrench. The Spy was at his feet, his skull crushed. Yeah, that had to be a horrible way to go, but damn that Spy. That Frenchman had left him alone with that psychopathic Son of the South. Horrible thoughts shot through his head, his eyes glancing down at that yellow cord secured to the enemy's waist. There was a flash of fury, his limbs burning, every part of him wanting to seek revenge.

And then, a wave of peace.

Yes, that enemy Engineer was awful. Maybe he would have enjoyed popping a few rounds threw that bastard's gut. As alone as the Scout was, so was the Engineer. No sentries. No teammates. Just him, his weapons, and most importantly, his team's intelligence. The Scout smirked, then bolted. This wasn't a good time to fight, but it was a fantastic time for running. He snagged the intelligence in his right hand, ducking as the Engineer missed bashing him across the skull. That moron had picked the wrong weapon to deal with him.

The Scout leapt into the sewer system, the porky cartoon struggling to keep up. He bounded through the water, laughing with the splashes. His pursuer fired off several shotgun rounds. The shots landed in the walls, all milliseconds behind where the young man had once been. Nothing to it. He bounded across the old railways, his chuckling echoing through the night. His pursuer couldn't keep up. He'd be back to the base in no—

Bam!

Searing pain shot through the Scout's right shoulder. Goddamn Yosemite Sam! The shot wrecked his balance, almost sending him tumbling into the abyss below. Energy drained from him, blood seeping down his shirt. No! No time to stop! He charged forward, hoping that he could just make it back to home plate. No, the intel room. He felt woozy, wondering what horrors would await him there. He might be running into a dragon's den.

As he rounded the corner up to the first floor, shining lenses caught his eyes. Oh, hell no! That Engineer would not give up. There was no time to waste. He bolted down the corridor, nearly tripping over his own feet. His enemy was fast on him, shots splattering all over the place. One round ricocheted off the back of the briefcase, throwing him to the left. No, no, no! He couldn't stop now!

The entry to his team's intelligence room beckoned him inside. He stumbled in, collapsing into a heap in the center of the room. God's voice—no, the Administrator's—signaled his victory. "Success! We have secured the enemy intelligence." He laughed, even as his enemy closed in to finish him off. Screw that bastard. He'd just broken an hour-long deadlock.

Just as the corners of his vision went dark, someone hauled him off the ground. He didn't scream. He could face his death like a man, now that he'd accomplished his goal. He flinched as a barrage of percussive sounds let loose in the intelligence room. Hot and cold sensations came over him in two waves. He blinked, and both became clear. The warmth on his skin was blood. The cool air surrounding him was gas emanating from a cheerful dispenser. His eyes widened, observing the variety of machinery around him and the cutlets of what was his pursuer at his feet. 

He hadn't been alone.

The Scout looked up to find his Engineer tending to the wound in his shoulder. His grin melted the residual shocks of horror away. "Doin' better, son?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Fine, ya know. No big deal." The Scout tried to shrug it off, but the pain still stung. His wound sealed shut, a relaxing hiss almost soothing him to sleep.

"Hey, now. No time for that." The Engineer nudged the Scout. "Gotta git two more pieces 'a intel."

The Scout whined. "Ah, man. Come on! I was great. I deserve at least a minute and a half to cool off."

The Engineer smirked, turning his attention to his machines. He licked his left thumb, scrubbing at an oil stain on his sentry. "Well, now. I reckin' the longer ya wait, the more time ye're gonna give that doppelganger of mine the time he needs to fix up something nasty."

"Well, when you put it like dhat." The Scout stood up. He wiped at matter sprayed on his pants. "Gotta pay dhat bastard back, anyway. Got chunks 'a him and dhe Spy on me. Dhis ain't easy to get out, ya know."

The smart-ass comment earned him another beaming grin from the Engineer. "Well then, Grasshopper. Git out there 'n—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" The Scout was off once more. "I got it. Geez!"


End file.
